<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>All That Which Stirs At Night by TheSarcasticRed</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29887056">All That Which Stirs At Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSarcasticRed/pseuds/TheSarcasticRed'>TheSarcasticRed</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We Don't Call It Love [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Cabin, Developing Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Hoag is alive, Human/Vampire Relationship, Light Angst, Mild Smut, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slice of Life, The Great War was won by Imperials, Ulfric didn't become jarl, Young Ulfric</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:53:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,527</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29887056</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSarcasticRed/pseuds/TheSarcasticRed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ulfric hadn't meant to invite a vampire into his home, for starters. He hadn't meant to fall for said vampire. Or for her to do so in return.</p><p> </p><p>-Do mind the tags. This isn't a story based on canon Skyrim.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ulfric Stormcloak, Ulfric Stormcloak/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We Don't Call It Love [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875337</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>All That Which Stirs At Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The lone hunter exited his cabin, much larger than it needed to be for only one man who had no family of his own, nor any apparent love interest. On his large, broad form, a bow and quiver sat. Attached to a leather belt was a knife; he no doubt used some other weapon for combat, but being as he seemed to be going hunting (<em>and how ironic that was</em>) he did not bring it. He was dressed in thick cloth fitting for autumn, in colors that matched the dying tree leaves.</p><p>Yesterday, he had spent all day in a sleeveless tunic cutting wood for winter and making sure his cabin was ready for cold weather. He had checked the windows, adding some thick, mossy substance to any gaps he saw. The day before that, he harvested some of the crops he had in a small piece of tilled land and stayed inside for most of the day. At night, he would check windows here and there, indicating he didn't sleep very restfully. </p><p>He was likely in his late twenties. Odd that he didn't have a family. He was the only one who entered and left his cabin, once a month walking down to Windhelm where he would get some minor socialization for a few days and some odd things he couldn't just make himself and then leave. The man had nestled in a small, make-shift forge near his cabin, rendering most things able to be made. Just two weeks ago he had been making arrow tips and making nails and one or two hinges.</p><p>None of the doors in his house were particularly loud, so he was probably just making extras in case anything broke. He seemed to be awfully prepared.</p><p>Another little odd thing about him: he rarely spoke. Occasionally, he'd get frustrated enough with something to curse, but otherwise, he was unusually stoic. Even a normal person would talk to themselves to an extreme after too long on their own, but he seemed to thrive in the isolation.</p><p>There was something so serene about him. The way he carries his loneliness like a pendant of duty, perhaps, or the seriousness that drifts with him. He is a lone man, yes, but he is stronger for it. And for a man to be so akin to his own company suggests he has experienced unfavorable situations with others- has walked in the depths of society and turned his back on it.</p><p>Such disciplined strength, both in body and in mind. </p><p>Perhaps that was why he was so intriguing.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br/>
He journeyed through the woods quietly for being such a large figure, able to track expertly and know when he was or wasn't close to an animal. He set up a little camp when it came to be night, lit himself a fire, and probably slept two or three hours in between taking guard. Not like he needed to. The area was safe enough. </p><p>Before dawn, he was up and moving again. Within daylight, he had shot a beast of an elk and was able to somehow get it back to his cabin in the next two days. He made three trips. On the last, he had stilled within moments and drew a sword, calling in a deep rumble, "Just because I can't see you doesn't mean you're hiding well. At least face me in the open," he threatens, though he seems more irritated than anything else.</p><p>A young woman, looking barely over the majority, walks out from behind several rows of trees. She's slender and short, certainly no match for him, and he knows it. Her eyes shift around warily, arms folding in as he sheathes his sword roughly. His expression is reserved as she clenches worn clothing into bunches with her fists, stained dark with dried blood. Her boots are worn and ragged, one good tug away from the soles ripping off.</p><p>He stares at her, lips tightening downward as he grunts, sheathing his sword. "You're awfully lost, lass."</p><p>"You're not going to kill me?" she murmurs breathlessly, still tense, waiting for him to make a sudden move. </p><p>The hunter shakes his head dimly. "I'm no bandit, and you look you've gotten more than your share of trouble. What happened to you?"</p><p>"I escaped highwaymen," she says hesitantly, doe-eyed. "I've been running for a few days. Haven't found anyone other than outlaws."</p><p>He makes a noise at the back of his throat. "The gods have one sick sense of humor, don't they," he mutters to himself. "Follow me. I have an elk I shot yesterday and I'm bringing it back to my home. You have any family anywhere?"</p><p>"I don't remember. When... When I got taken, I think they hit my head," she answers, anxiously copying his movements as he begins to walk. He drags a sled of meat behind him, rustling fallen leaves and gliding through the thin layer of mud below them.</p><p>"Mm, probably never will, then. You want to keep running and hope you find somewhere to linger before winter sets in or stay with me until next month? I'll be heading to Windhelm for some business. I could drop you off at Kynsegrove or a mining town with some coin," he offers. "Send you off in a cart to somewhere warmer."</p><p>She swallows, a thin hand slipping under light blond hair to rub at the back of her neck. Her locks are speckled with dust and dirt, similarly to her face. "I... Wouldn't I be a burden? The start of winter isn't forgiving, and I don't want to put you in a bind."</p><p>"You wouldn't be much of one. I have more than enough coin, and I've already got enough food to choke a horse. Even if I eat like one, there's still plenty for a tiny thing like you. When's the last time you ate?"</p><p>"A day ago. I caught a hare," she murmurs, lips thinning slightly and expression dimming. He doesn't notice.</p><p>"Tricky little scamps, aren't they? Trying to get fattened up for the cold," he muses, then advises after a while, "watch your step on these rocks. I'll fix you up something at home- you're awful thin. Say, you know how to sew?"</p><p>She nods, murmuring as she carefully jumps off a rock, "I did a lot of it for the bandits."</p><p>The incline hadn't been much of a problem for him and his sled, oddly enough. The hunter was able to avoid getting it stuck or broken with minimal thought, and it surely couldn't be light. He didn't seem at all phased by the weight of it. With the size of him, it shouldn't come as a surprise, but she notices it nonetheless.</p><p>He tosses a glance to her over his shoulder, even, as he remarks, "Weren't with them too long, I hope."</p><p>"Just a week or two," she says gently. Her voice is delicate and melodious, contrasting with the hunter's rugged, rumbling tones. "Why ask about sewing, though?"</p><p>"I have some rolls of old fabric and furs. No clothing patterns, but I can cut up an old tunic or something so you can make yourself some proper clothes. I'll not be spitting on my father's name by not providing for a lass living under my roof," he answers stiffly, drifting between trees and adjusting his hold on the rope in his hand. "We're a half-hour out still."</p><p>She studies him, then asks after a few minutes of walking, "Where are you from?"</p><p>He doesn't look back, merely stating, "Windhelm."</p><p>"You have family there?"</p><p>"My father and brother."</p><p>"Older or younger?"</p><p>"Younger," the hunter responds quietly. He doesn't begin another conversation after and she takes it as the man not wanting to be pried open. She knows she can be too chatty for some people, and being as he's rather guarded, he's probably one of those people. It disappoints her, but he'll be putting the metaphorical food on the table for a while. She can't risk him giving her the boot while she's this vulnerable, even though she feels poorly for bothering him at all.</p><p>The girl frowns, then lets silence hand for another stretch of time, listening to the birds chirp and leaves rustle instead. When she grows too bored for her liking, she questions, "What is your name, sir?"</p><p>He glances at her. "Folk call me Ric. You?"</p><p>"Merea," she smiles hesitantly. "Don't ask where it comes from, 'cause I have no clue."</p><p>Ric snorts at her light jest, responding, "Nice to meet you, Merea. You got any crafts?"</p><p>She nods, watching her boots move forward to her next step similarly to a child. "I dabble with alchemy sometimes. I read books. And I like animals. I think I took care of a neighbor's farm or something, but I can't remember much anymore. I know how to raise cattle and goats and... all that.  What about you?"</p><p>"If I'm not working or smithing, I'm usually making mead. Got a cellar that stores all my kegs. Or, I'm making meals. One of 'em."</p><p>Her brows raise, eyes gleaming. "Do you have a busy life, out here?"</p><p>She swears she can see his lips tilt in a smile, but she's not entirely sure. "Yeah, especially before winter. I've gotten all but the last of my crops of the year canned just this week and the first snowfall should be coming within a few days. I've got firewood to cut, ground to prep, and windows to cover. I might have to put you to work in the cabin if you wouldn't mind getting the storage furs cleaned up and the like."</p><p>She smiles, cheeks reddening. "I'd be more than happy to help." </p><p>His blond hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck jostles with a quick head movement to the left as a squealing noise pierces the air. His eyes flicker to her. "Stay here with this. Yell if anything comes sniffing. Something got caught in one of my traps."</p><p>Merea nods, watching him as he jogs off, weapons moving on his back in turn to his movements. A sword and a bow, both of good quality. She shuffles on her feet for a few minutes, waiting for him to return, her stomach clenching and her tongue running along her teeth uncomfortably. </p><p>"Not now," she whispers to herself when she hears him near, biting her dry cheek. "Just a little longer."</p><p>He is soon within eyeshot, blood pooling up from little marks in his forearm. At her furrowed brows and staring, he explains, "Got a young wolf with a twisted leg caught. He got his teeth in my arm 'fore I got him out, but it's a shallow bite. It'll heal up just fine with the potions I've got at home, and we're not far off. Don't worry about it."</p><p>Merea watches him restlessly but slowly continues to trail behind him as they promptly come upon a large cabin in a clearing. Stumps are littered about the area, jagged from being cut. The home itself is made well, standing tall and solid.</p><p>She looks around the area in curiosity. "Did you build this?" </p><p>The hunter stops the sled in front of the house to pick it up and go up the steps to the small porch. In doing so, his biceps flex, and the sleeve of his tunic adjusts to show a black mark around his upper arm- ink pierced into his skin. It is hidden from sight once he puts the sled down, and she quickly averts her eyes as he replies, "I did."</p><p>"It looks really nice," she says, face flushing. A chuckle leaves the hunter as he opens the door. Chickens cluck nearby.</p><p>She digs her fingernails into her palms, trying to distract herself from the blood on his arm.</p><p>"Good. Come on in, little one. You're welcome to look around while I get my arm fixed up," he tells her, and she carefully enters his home, moving to the side and sitting to untie her boots while he moves further into the house to pop open a potion. She tucks them by the door and studies the iron hangers next to it, seeing a few of what she assumes to be Ric's coats. A shoebox lies underneath them, and then there are weapon holders containing a bow, an axe, and a shield. Two of them are empty, presumably for the weapons the hunter had on him.</p><p>She moves to inspect the other side of the entrance, a corner of cabinets, a basin of water, and counter space and shelves. A few pots and a pan or two are set on the shelving. Between the wall and a counter with a stool tucked under it is a stove. Past the counter is a stone hearth and a living space with a few chairs and cushions and blankets, bookshelves lining the wall. They lead to a door leading to the left (the one Ric went into), and one straight forward.</p><p>Merea wanders to the room beyond the bookshelves, finding it to be a hallway instead, leading to three different rooms. Behind her, the floorboards creak, signaling that the hunter is on the move. </p><p>She catches his form in the doorframe, then peaks into the door on the right, finding it to be a bedroom. The only door on the left is a bathroom and the room after that is what she assumes to be another bedroom. Neither of the bedrooms look to be used often. She doesn't know why he has them.</p><p>Her shoulders tense, and her throat tightens. She clenches her eyes shut, takes a deep breath, and shakes her head.</p><p>"Ric?" she calls lightly.</p><p>She can hear him take a set of stairs and sees him once he walks into the main room. "Does your family come over often?" she inquiries.</p><p>He shrugs and tilts his head. "Once every few months, my father will come over for a few weeks. Sometimes my brother will visit for a day or two when he's in the area with company. I've got a good amount of shield-brothers that stop by, as well, but no one recently. Save for you, that is," as he heads outside to pick up more meat, he adds in a grunt, "I rarely ever get a warning before someone drops by, and after half a decade of folk showing up, I've gotten used to it."</p><p>As she listens, she moves slowly to the living room. As Merea browses the books, she comments, "Do you enjoy the solitude when people aren't coming and going?"</p><p>"I do. There isn't anyone I have to please, and life goes at the pace I want it to. It's freeing, even if it gets a bit too quiet some days," he then jogs down the stairs to the cellar while she nods in agreement to his words, looking around once more.</p><p>Her attention fixates on a piece of art on the wall, a framed charcoal sketch of two young boys and an older man. The man sits on a throne, holding the younger boy (a tot) on the armrest. Both have wide, beaming grins. An older boy stands on his other side, looking far too solemn compared to the other two. </p><p>A little to the left is a painting of a large hall, presumably the same one that the two boys and man are drawn in. It has a long meal table spanning across the length of it with people filling it, a throne located on a platform at its head. </p><p>She glances to Ric behind her, who merely raises a brow as he passes. He doesn't say anything, so she doesn't ask. Hesitance stirs in her, and she wonders if she should leave. Perhaps he's not the one.</p><p>Before Merea can decide, though, the hunter is calling her to the cellar. She wastes no time in obeying, taking the stairs down carefully and only sparing a glance at the neatly folded blankets on a cot in the upstairs room before ignoring it.</p><p>The lower level of the home is perhaps larger than the upper level, with fieldstone stacked neatly on the walls and pillars for support dotted around in even lines. A wood wall separates a part of the cellar, which she assumes to be where he keeps his mead kegs, meat, and food. The rest of the space is organized neatly, be it through shelving on the wall or stacking.</p><p>She would like it, if not for the way her feet absorb the coolness of the stone. Merea shuffles on her feet as the hunter shows her a stack of pelts, and near it, a few rolls of fabrics sat atop an old desk. "Here's all the small game furs and cloth I have. The fabric does need a shake off, as it's rather dusty, but you're welcome to all of it. Pick out what you need and I'll clear out one of the bedrooms for you to use. All the thread and needles are in the desk drawers," he explains.</p><p>She sends him an inquisitive look. "It doesn't seem like you've used the cloth much, but fabric isn't something that you usually let collect dust. It's too expensive. Where did you get it?"</p><p>"One of my shield brothers brought it because he and his wife were moving. I was thinking they'd come back and pick it all up eventually, but he's not reached out for years now. Either he's dead or he cut old ties," the hunter states bluntly. </p><p>"You sound rather unbothered about it," she frowns, brows upturned in upset.</p><p>"Man was about as bright as dirt. He nearly got me killed too many times to count, and he was too dull to see his wife wasn't at all faithful. I hold very little respect for him," Ric returns gruffly. </p><p>Merea observes his expression, then murmurs, "I'm sorry."</p><p>The hunter raises a brow, head tilted down to meet her eye. He's a head taller than her, if not more, and twice her size. His jaw is lined with stubble, and all in all, he's far too handsome for his own good. And, for a hunter, he's awfully muscled. Usually, people of his kind are much leaner. He looks like a warrior more than a bowman.</p><p> It's then she realizes how easily he could kill her, and feels rather faint at the thought. He rumbles, "You needn't be sorry for merely asking questions, little one. Go on and find what you like. I'll warm up bread for you and get something on the stove for dinner. Call me down when you've found your pick of the litter and we'll go from there, yeah?"</p><p>She nods, answering with a meek, "Thank you. For everything."</p><p>"It's no bother. House was getting a little too still without folk coming in and out, and you've just gotten your world tossed around. No better place than here to figure out how to live normally again," Ric says simply. </p><p>He heads back upstairs without further comment, leaving her in the chill of the cellar. Once she hears him moving around upstairs, the floor creaking in turn, she approaches the desk and begins to rummage around. </p><p> </p><p>Not a few hours later, with night starting to set in and darken the land, Ric and Merea are sat across from each other, eating bowls of soup. He had spent the rest of the day going in and out while she began to tediously measure out fabric. More than once, she questioned if he was sure she could use all the fabric he had given her, and every time he found amusement in it and assured her it would go to waste otherwise.  </p><p>He had been cutting wood, it seemed, because he smelt like sweet pine and had been plucking pine needles out of the cuff of his tunic every now and then. When it came time to start cooking, though, he cleaned up nicely and changed clothing. She chopped a few things that had to be eaten for the stew, made a bread dough from the book of recipes he had, and desperately protected her vegetables from his greedy fingers, prone to kidnap carrots. More than a few times, he was simply too sly, and got the forbidden vegetable, leaving her pouting.</p><p>While she scooped a spoonful of meat and broth into her mouth, he aired, "What are you making, there?" gesturing ambiguously to the cloth on the floor with a nod of his head.</p><p>"A slip, first, and then a pinafore," she answers. "I might make a blouse, too. I'm not sure yet."</p><p>"Sewing's a good skill. All of my clothing is from the seamstress in Windhelm," the hunter admits. "Got most of it five years back and my father paid for it because I had gone from the width of a stick to what I am now. I'm lucky he had the coin for it. Wouldn't have been able to get it myself."</p><p> "What is your father's trade?" she questions, rubbing her nose a little. Her mouth feels far too dry, and her stomach pains.</p><p>He takes a sip of his mead that he had gotten from the cellar. Then, he states, "One of the councilmen in Windhelm."</p><p>Her brows fly up. "That's quite a title."</p><p>"It is. My younger brother is inheriting it. He's damn good at all the negotiating and rubbing elbows. I don't know how he can stand those nobles," he shakes his head, rolling his eyes. "They're like starving mutts. At any single opportunity that arises, they froth at the mouth and rip each other apart for the jarl's attention. Sure, some of them are good men, but they've got closed minds. There's no changing their ways, and that's why Windhelm is on the verge of ruin. That city is a port and a historical site, and they're not using it to its full potential," he scowls, then glances to her, changing his expression quickly to a sheepish quirk of his lips. "That's my two coins, anyway. I'm not taking my father's place so I'd do well to keep it to myself, I suppose."</p><p>After listening intently, she shakes her head, insisting, "Don't say that. You're a good talker, and you make points that seem sensible."</p><p>"Well, you're young yet, lass."</p><p>She eyes him, then returns to eating. After a pause, she asks, "Why choose to live in the middle of the woods? You can still find solitude in a city, and you don't seem like a hunter."</p><p>"There it is," he states. "I fought in the Great War for three years. Was one of five in a group of one hundred that made it out alive once everything was over with. Came back home and I couldn't live in the city- too many people around and too confined. I've been in too many sieges of cities to feel comfortable walking down a street. I'm... talked about often, being my choice to not inhert my father's title isn't what was expected, so folk gossip about what they don't know. Didn't take long for me to be rumored as some sort of half-wit because I didn't care to talk to people anymore."</p><p>Merea frowns, commenting, "That's not very kind of them."</p><p>"It's better than being called a murderer," the man replies pointedly. "Either way, this life suits me better. I don't get into spits with my family and they get to see the best of me. I don't get along well with most folk."</p><p>She tilts her head at that, nodding faintly. "Most people think I talk too much," she confesses. "Ask too many questions."</p><p>He raises a brow, eyes glinting with something she can't disconcern. "You do it from curiosity. It's an innocent thing, one which people aren't used to. Nords aren't known for being gentle, and especially not with their children."</p><p>"Children?" she exclaims. "I am a child?"</p><p>"Have you passed your majority trials?" he challenges roughly.</p><p>She huffs, scowling childishly over her food. "No," she mumbles, attempting to cut a carrot in half but her spoon misses and ends up smacking the wood of the bowl. "I'm not a child," she asserts seconds later in a biting tone, teeth drawing blood in her mouth.</p><p>Ric is unbothered by her sharpness, it seems. He stands, grabbing her bowl and walking back over to the pot to refill it. As he fulls his own bowl again and guilt pools in her stomach, he comments quietly, "It is not shameful to be innocent. Nor to be compassionate or kind. Far too few of us are, myself included. The world needs people like you."</p><p>She glances at him. "You took in a girl you found wandering in the forest. Is that not kind?"</p><p>"It's from ancestral values, little one. I did it because it was disciplined into me as a child to keep dames away from things that could hurt them as long as I had the opportunity to. But you? You don't have any reason to be considerate in return. In fact, my father would probably clap me over the head for asking you to help me. By my family values, you could stay here for the rest of your life and unless you killed someone, I couldn't make you leave unless I married you off. I don't think that personally, but that's custom."</p><p>Merea recoils, then amusement shifts into her face that mirrors his own. "Explain that."</p><p>"Well, old order books state that once a lady of any particular age is in a household that isn't theirs for more than a few years, they're subject to the head of the household's rules and a part of the family. Except, because they're not technically a servant or a child, they can't be kicked out unless they have been officially labeled as kin. But, they can be forced to wed someone, to a certain extent. But that's just tradition- you've not got to worry about it. I don't follow the book too closely. Few do," he tells her dismissively. "It's mere history. Interesting to know, but useless out here."</p><p>"Sounds old," she remarks, scrunching her nose. "I just try to be a good person."</p><p>He shifts his head, agreeing readily. "I follow that as well. Rules only help a man that does not discipline himself, and what good is he once he's out of the sight of others to see him doing wrong? It maintains order and power, but other than that, its uses are limited."</p><p>The conversation ends there, and comfortable silence echoes after. Once they both finish their bowls, Merea washes them while he goes about storing the rest of the soup. She shows him her progress on what was once a mere roll of fabric, and after, he shows her to a room she can sleep in.</p><p>Once alone in the room, she paces for a few moments, unsure of what to do. She ends up going to bed, hoping that tomorrow she'll be able to sneak off to find a squirrel or something to dull her appetite.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>